


Candlelight Confession

by Computer_Gremlin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, Love Confessions, M/M, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-09
Updated: 2016-02-09
Packaged: 2018-05-19 06:43:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5957494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Computer_Gremlin/pseuds/Computer_Gremlin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock had never intended to become attracted to John, at least not in that way, but he had.  ‘I am not gay,’ had been John’s mantra every time someone suggested that he and Sherlock were a couple, called him Sherlock’s date, or implied that they had anything other than a platonic relationship.  But he may have been partly to blame for that, after all he had put John off that night at Angelo’s.  ‘I consider myself married to my work.’  He regretted those words now.  It seemed he was just going to have to learn to live with the consequences, and the longing he felt for the other man.  Then one evening a summer thunderstorm, the power failure it caused, and the unforeseen confession that ensued, prove to be the right combination for what might just be the worst night of Sherlock’s life — or the best.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Candlelight Confession

It was late summer and the day had been sweltering with the temperature into the triple digits on the Fahrenheit scale. No one had been moving at anything like a normal pace, opting instead, for the slow crawl of near heat exhaustion. London’s animal population had sought escape from the sun’s relentless glare, seeking out the shelter of the shade, even though the shadowy places were only a few degrees cooler. Everyone had been covered in sweet, clothes sticking to damp skin making the heat seem even more oppressive. Even the traffic had been reduced to a sluggish crawl. But with the setting sun came a welcomed drop in temperature, and the promise of a cooling rain storm.

Seated behind his microscope at the end of the kitchen table, Sherlock Holmes could watch his flatmate, John Watson with a simple upwards glance. He had positioned himself at the end of the table, rather than his usual place, several hours ago, pointing out that he could catch the cross breeze better from this vantage point. The truth was that he was better able to watch John without being obvious. Although he supposed he really hadn’t needed to be quite so surreptitious, because John seemed oblivious to his attention. John was lost in thought as he updated his blog with the account of their latest case. The case had involved a love triangle, a murder, and a short but exhilarating chase through the back alleys of London’s East End. John had been the one to take down the fleeing murder suspect with an impressive tackle. A move that Sherlock had been impressed with, and had secretly admired. John hadn’t completely lost the tight, fit body of a soldier, even if he did tend to hide that body under those bloody jumpers. However, hidden or not, it seemed that Sherlock was finding it hard to ignore John’s body, these days.

He sighed and looked back down at the slide under the microscope, the echoes of John’s _‘I am not gay,’_ declaration ringing in his memory. That had been John’s mantra every time someone suggested that he and Sherlock were a couple, called him Sherlock’s date, or implied that they had anything other than a platonic relationship, even though Sherlock had never chosen to deny or confirm these misconceptions. He had known from the moment he and John had first met – that day in the lab at St. Bart’s – that he liked John, and by the end of the second night that he had known him, he knew that they would be very close friends. After all John had killed a man, to save Sherlock from his own arrogance and boredom. And it hadn’t taken much longer for him to recognize that John wasn’t like other people, he wasn’t dull, or ordinary. He had a way of constantly surprising Sherlock, even if he wasn’t as clever or smart as he himself was. John kept him on his toes, kept him from being too bored. But Sherlock had never anticipated becoming so physically attracted to his flatmate.

He looked up again, watching John pecking away at the keyboard as he worked on his blog. Sherlock smiled warmly for just a moment before it melted into a sad frown. He should have never been so quick to put John off that first night at Angelo’s. “. . . I consider myself married to my work, and while I’m flattered by your interest. . .” Damn, if he had know then just how he would come to feel, he’d have never said that. But the damage had been done there was no mistaking that. He was just going to have to live with the consequences of his words.

 _I am the master of my unspoken words and a slave to those that should have remained unspoken,_ He thought, scoffing slightly. The sound made John look up at Sherlock their eyes meeting for just a heartbeat before Sherlock had to look away. The soft sounds of the keys clicking, letting him know that John had returned to his blog.

Sherlock felt the now familiar longing for John, the one that had started gnawing at him so often these days. The longing to be close to John, to touch him, to feel the warm of his body . . . He looked back down into microscope, willing his heart to slow, and his mind to stop it's silly musings.

Sherlock could remember vividly when it had happened, the first time he’d had to admit to himself that he found John attractive in a way that went beyond a mere flatmate or a helpmate to assist him in the Work. The very moment he had realized that he might actually want John in a carnal way, and that he might actually be in love with John.

It had been just this past spring, early April in fact, when DI Lestrade had called him and John out to the scene of what had turned out to be a completely mundane case of accidental death. A young woman – a sex worker by the looks of her – had been found dead in a back alley. It hadn’t taken him more than a minute to deduce the events leading to her death; she had been running when the heel of her left shoe (a pair of four inch stiletto heels) had broken causing her to fall and hit her head on a chunk of broken concrete, causing her death. He had then retreated to lean against a police car parked in the alley allowing John to confirm the cause of death – blunt force trauma. He was board and from his vantage point, he casually observed John, squatting next to the body, his back mostly turned to Sherlock. John’s jeans had been stretched tight across his arse and he had found himself fixated on John’s firm round backside, longing to stroke his hands over that smooth mound of flesh and muscle. When he had realized that he’d been staring at John’s bum and chewing on his lower lip, he had been embarrassed, but a quick look around proved that no one had noticed. They were all so dense. 

Taking a deep steadying breath to bring his heart and breath back to normal, Sherlock had moved his gaze to John’s face, studying him, memorizing and cataloging his features, as he had done so many times before. He never tired of that face, the way John chewed at the inside of his cheek when his attention was fully focused on a victim, or the way his brow furrowed as he fit together the pieces of evidence to determine the cause of death. He observed the gentleness of John’s touch and soft expression of concern over the death of even this complete stranger. How there, that day, in that alley, the way his hair ruffled in the breeze and made him shiver so slightly that only Sherlock could have noticed it.

It had been cool that day, cool enough that John had closed up his jacket against the chill in the air, and Sherlock had been watching him, wondering what he would look like without all those layers of clothes. True, he had seen John in various states of undress before, but never completely, and now his curiosity had drifted to images of his flatmate, divested of all clothing, stretched out across a bed – his bed – relaxed and waiting for Sherlock, a semi erection gracing his groin, and Sherlock had realized that he was getting hard over this mental image. Shifting his position, and wrapping his coat around himself to better conceal the evidence of his own arousal, he tried to turn his mind away from the image of John naked and aroused. And that’s when it had hit him, he was attracted to John and it was more than platonic, it was sexual. Good Lord what was he coming to?

All the times he had pushed the boundaries of personal space, crowding in on John to look over his shoulder as John worked on his blog. All the times he had stood closer to him than was socially acceptable, the countless times he had put a hand on John’s shoulder, or brushed past him, making physical contact when none had been necessary. The times he had John retrieve his phone from his jacket pocket, while he was still wearing the jacket. It had been because he had wanted to be close to John, wanted to touch him, wanted to feel the warmth of John’s body, wanted to inhale the unique, warm slightly spicy, slightly sharp scent that was John’s and John’s alone. And there was so much more that he wanted, but had never actually pursued. He wanted to know the strength of John’s arms as they folded around him in an embrace. To know the firmness of John’s lips as they were pressed to his own, the taste of his mouth, his skin. To know the grace and power of his body as he rhythmically thrust . . .

Sherlock blinked realizing that John had turned to face him, an expectant look on his face as he waited for – a conformation? – an answer? – a correction? – a criticism? – something – from Sherlock, and he realized that he hadn’t heard a word of what John had been saying. That he, Sherlock Holmes, had failed to observe the world around him, that he had been so lost in his own musings that he had completely missed the obvious. He could feel the burn of a blush spreading across his cheeks and he tried to look away, but couldn’t. It had been in that brief moment when his eyes had met John’s that the thought had hit him, _‘I am in love with John Watson’_. The realization had been so devastating, he’d had to turn and walk away. It had taken him over three hours to return to Baker Street.

John had asked if Sherlock was all right when he had finally returned to the flat, but beyond that, John never questioned Sherlock about what had happened, or about why he had walked away like that, or why he had been gone for so long. If John had any suspicions about it, he had never said anything about them, and Sherlock wasn’t sure if he was relieved or disappointed about that.

“Is there a problem?” John asked, pulling Sherlock back to the present moment. He was turned in his chair facing Sherlock directly. “You’ve been studying that same slide for the last half hour.”

Sherlock glanced at a window - rather than answering John’s question - as the first faint roll of thunder rumbled in the distance, and a soft rain began to fall. A light breeze stirred the lace curtains in the windows, carrying the scent of the approaching storm. Picking up the pen laying next to the scope, Sherlock scribbled a note on the pad of paper beside him.

“Close the windows John, it has started to rain,” Sherlock told him in a flat noncommittal tone, looking back up at his flatmate.

John smiled, looking towards the windows. “The rain isn’t coming in yet, and the breeze feels nice. We can wait a bit longer before they need to be closed,” he looked back at Sherlock, one brow raised. “You haven’t answered my question.”

“Hmm,” was Sherlock’s only response, as he exchanged slides and returned to his study. He heard John chuckle under his breath before the tap – tap – tap of his typing filled the silence again, the gentle patter of the rain filling in the gaps when John paused to mull over what he was about to type. Sherlock exhaled slowly, sneaking another peek, wondering if John was aware that he was being studied just as much as the specimens under Sherlock’s microscope. If he was, he wasn’t letting on.

It was nice, these evenings when it was just he and John in the flat, when John hadn’t gone out on a date or wasn't meeting friends at the pub. They were Sherlock’s favorite evenings. Evenings with nothing to distract or worry him, just quiet time with his flatmate.

Another roll of thunder – closer this time – disturbed the quiet and the rain became a bit heavier. But as it wasn’t coming in the windows yet, he supposed John had been right to leave them open. It was starting to cool, dispelling the day’s oppressive heat. The breeze between the windows in the lounge and the one in the kitchen, did feel rather nice. John leaned back in his chair and drew in a long, deep breath.

“I love the smell of rain,” he sighed quietly, stretching his arms up over his head and arching his back, sighing softly as joints popped, and muscles let go of their stiffness.

Sherlock watched, riveted by the sight of John, his back arched, his head dropping back to expose his neck and his vest top pulling up to reveal a tantalizing strip of skin above his belt. John had shed his cardigan and shirt earlier in the day, leaving only a loose fitting vest top. The sight of him, arched and reaching above his head, his stomach peeking out from under the soft white fabric, and the sound of the hushed, contented moan that escaped his lips, sent a surge of heat coursing through Sherlock that settled in his groin. Sherlock had to shift awkwardly in his chair, trying to make his growing erection less uncomfortable. He looked down into the microscope and pictured his brother in a pair of Speedo swimming trunks, and things eased immediately. He smiled to himself, that had certainly done the trick.

A flash of bright light in the darkening sky caught Sherlock’s attention and he looked up, leaning back in his chair as he started counting off the seconds. One – two – three – four – five – six – seven. The rumble of thunder was long and drawn-out, an ominous sound that nudged at some primal fear tucked away, deep in the psyche.

“Sounds like the storm is getting closer. Wonder how bad it will get,” John got to his feet and started towards the kitchen. “Want some tea?”

“Hmm,” Sherlock hummed, returning his attention back to the slide under the microscope. “If you are going to fix it, then yes.”

John huffed out a small laugh as he picked up the kettle and moved to the sink to add more water. Sherlock watched out of the corner of his eye, admiring the flex of muscle in John’s arms as he moved about the kitchen, pulling down mugs, putting in the tea bags and retrieving a spoon from a drawer, and wishing that John’s jeans and tee fit just a bit tighter.

It struck him that for a man of middle age John still had a fit body, the sort that other men, even a younger one, would covet. He certainly did - covet that body - but for different reasons. There was only a slight softening around his midsection, and Sherlock thought it was a shame that John hid his physique under relaxed fitting trousers and shapeless jumpers. He was a pleasant looking man – some called him cute – and Sherlock didn’t understand why he didn’t flaunt it more than he did. He stifled a sigh as he made another note on the pad of paper.

Sherlock stared unseeingly, down into the microscope. How he longed to see John naked, to touch his skin and feel how the textured changed from one part of his body to the next. To feel the warmth of John’s breath against his own skin. To feel John’s touch on his own body, John’s hands on his back, his legs around his waist, as John’s body tensed and trembled as he . . . Sherlock had to close his eyes and mentally shake off the thoughts before they got him into trouble. He had to learn to control his imagination, or it was going to get him into trouble he wasn’t going to be able to redirect himself out of, or otherwise avoid awkward explanations.

John turned and leaned back against the worktop, crossing his arms over his chest. “What are you studying so intently anyway?”

Sherlock’s breath caught in his throat, sure that he’d just been caught out. “Cultures of the residue they found on the murder victim discovered in Brixton the week before last,” he explained casually, changing slides again, trying to act as if he’d been thinking nothing out of the ordinary. “Lestrade finally got around to sending a sample to me three days ago, and it’s been incubating in the oven for the last day and a half.”

“Ah, well, I’m not sure I needed to know that last part, thank you,” John replied, turning back to the tea preparations, as the kettle began to boil. “It must be very interesting, it’s kept you occupied for the last couple of hours.”

Another flash of lightening lit the windows. Sherlock got to five this time before the thunder followed. The storm was definitely getting closer. The curtains fluttered as the breeze got stronger.

“Better check the windows again, when you’ve finished with that,” Sherlock grumbled, adjusting the focus on the scope, and trying not to look up at John again.

“You know, you could do it yourself,” John countered as he dropped the used tea bags into the bin and retrieved the milk from the fridge.

“Why should I, you’re already up.” It was a statement of fact and not a question.

John rolled his eyes, sitting a mug of tea on the table beside the note pad at Sherlock’s right. “Lazy git,” he muttered under his breath, as he left the kitchen to return to his computer.

Sherlock looked up, admiring John’s backside as he crossed the lounge, and wishing once again, that John’s jeans were tighter. Maybe if he confiscated a pair or two and subjected them to a really hot wash . . . Just as John reached the table where his computer sat, the rain became a torrential downpour, lightning flashing and thunder following only two seconds later. John hurried to close the windows before the wind could blow the rain in. The lights flickered ominously.

“Looks like it’s going to be a bad one,” John observed as he watched out the window, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his jeans and leaning against the side of the window casing.

Sherlock’s breath hitched. With his hands in his pockets like that, the denim was stretched tight across John’s arse. Did he know that had happened? Did he do that on purpose? Was it an invitation? Sherlock tried to control his breathing as another flash of light lit the world outside accompanied by thunder not quite two seconds later. The lights flickered again, as the flat fell into silence. Sherlock sat there watching John, as he stood at the window, unaware that he was the object of such want and desire.

“Woo-hoo,” Mrs. Hudson called from the doorway. She was carrying a pair of pillar candles, and smiling her usual motherly smile. “Just wanted to make sure you boys had some candles,” She shrugged. “You know, in case we lose power.”

“Yes, thank you Mrs. Hudson,” John’s voice was warm and friendly as he accepted the candles from their landlady. “But let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

“It could be very romantic,” she suggested, raising an eyebrow before she turned and retreated back down the stairs. “You never know what mischief you could get into in the dark,” John shook his head as he placed the candles on the table next to his computer, settled himself back into his chair, and started typing again.

Lightning and thunder struck less than a second apart, rattling the glass in the windows, the lights flickering off, then back on only a few seconds later. Sherlock turned off the microscope, just in case there was a power surge, and leaned back, picking up his mug and sipping absently at the hot liquid, as his eyes were drawn once again to his flatmate. His mind drifted into dangerous territory again, and he cleared his throat trying to control his imagination. John glanced his way for a heartbeat before turning back to the keyboard.

Sherlock wondered what John thought of when he looked at him. Did he simply see his flatmate, best friend, a man who he shared a domicile and therefore a life with? Or did he see more? If so, what was it John saw? Sherlock doubted he’d ever know. He huffed out a small laugh to himself. John was not gay, so whatever John saw it certainly wasn’t the same things he saw when he looked at John.

Those who knew Sherlock seemed to believe that he was asexual and therefore uninterested in sex, which wasn’t the truth. The truth was that he actually enjoyed sex. It’s just that it usually came along with relationships, and relationships were something he didn’t do well. They were messy and complicated and the few times he had tried to have a relationship it had ended badly. There had always been arguments, misunderstandings, accusations, suspicions, slamming doors – none of which he understood. And in the end, he had ended up alone again. So he had buried himself in the Work, stuffed down the emotions, and forced his libido into submission. But ever since that day this past April, it seemed that he was fighting a losing battle. He had started noticing John in ways that were definitely _not_ platonic, and the most inappropriate times. At crime scenes when John was bent over a body; while at the Yard has John stood talking Sgt. Donavan or some other member of the Met; in the morgue when their eyes met over the autopsy table and some poor victim of an unsolved crime, or riding in a taxi when the very nearness of John would send a frisson of heat through is body, settling in the pit of his stomach. It was getting to be _very_ bothersome. John even haunted his sleep. Dreams of John naked in bed with him writhing in pleasure beneath him were becoming a frequent occurrence. It seemed like he was having them once or twice a week now. He feared that one of these times John was going to overhear him in the mitts of one of _those_ dreams and walk into his bedroom just in time to hear him moan out John’s name with the evidence of the nature of the dream on prominent display.

Sherlock realized his hands were trembling, that the desire and want that he felt for John was manifesting in the physical form of tremors. He had to set the mug back on the table, before he spilt his tea. He ran his hands through his hair and breathed out slowly.

He wanted to say something to John. But what would he say? He wasn’t good at this sort of thing. He never knew what to say, or how to say it. _‘Um, excuse me John, but would it be alright if I kissed you?’_  Or did one just go up and do it? He never knew. But right now, what he really wanted to do was to take John into his arms, tilt his head back, and press his mouth to John’s. To push his tongue past John’s lips and explore the warmth and taste of John’s mouth. What would John do? Would he be interested and kiss Sherlock back? Or would John push him away in disgust?

 _‘I am not gay,’_ echoed in his head and he sighed. It was hopeless.

Damn.

Should he take the risk? The thought was a bitter one. If he did take the risk and John wasn’t interested – which was the most likely outcome – it could ruin their current friendship. And that was something Sherlock knew he didn’t want to risk. It was better to desire him from afar then to live without John in his life. There was no question about that.

A blinding flash filled the sitting room with brilliant light and the accompanying clap of thunder made the whole of 221 Baker Street shudder in its wake. The world went dark as the lights went out and did not come back on. John’s profile was illuminated in the soft blue glow of his computer screen, softening his features, making him look younger than his years. John sighed, closed the computer, and then rubbed his eyes, swearing softly.

“Why did you do that?” Sherlock asked. “Your computer has a battery.”

“Yeah, but the modem doesn’t,” John replied, reaching for one of the candles. “Do we have matches?”

Sherlock grunted and got up to dig in one of the kitchen drawers, until his fingers closed around a box of safety matches he kept for lighting his Bunsen burner. Cautiously, he walked out into the lounge, his eyes finally adjusting to the dim light. He handed John the box, before seating himself in the chair opposite him. John struck a match – momentarily blinding Sherlock – and lit one of the candles Mrs. Hudson had given them casting the room into soft shifting light and shadow.

“Were you writing up the case from last week?” Sherlock asked casually, even though he already knew the answer.

“Yeah,” John sighed, “I was nearly finished it anyway. I can finish it up and publish it tomorrow,” he paused thoughtfully, playing idly with the box of matches. “I really felt sorry for that bloke. That kind of obsessive love – when it becomes a valid course of action to kill a perceived rival. It’s sad, really.” He shook his head dropping his eyes to focus on the top of his computer.

Sherlock scoffed leaning back and crossing his arms. The candlelight gave John’s face a warm glow, his features awash in shifting shadows. It was hard not to stare. “Love, what a ridiculous emotion."

“I take it you have never been in love,” John raised his eyes to meet Sherlock’s gaze, the candle flame reflected in his dark blue eyes. Sherlock could see sadness in those eyes, sadness he wasn’t sure was for him, or for something in John’s past.

Sherlock allowed his mind to drift back. He had thought he was in love once, in his early adulthood. He had been deliriously happy and thought they would be together for the rest of their lives. Everything had been wonderful — almost fairytale like — for nearly two months, until one night he had allowed himself to be the first to put voice to the sentiment and told Victor, “I love you.” Victor had only laughed before replying, “Oh Sherlock, you are such a starry eyed fatuous little freak.” That night they had spent engaged in wild, passionate sex, in the morning Victor had walked out, and Sherlock had never heard from him again. He still bore the scars of that relationship, both physical and emotional, and he had sworn that he would never fall in love again. But now look at him, in love with John — who proclaimed that he was not gay — with no hope of ever being able to share that love with John. Well he wasn’t about to get caught in that snare again, that was for sure.

“No,” Sherlock huffed, hoping that John wouldn’t hear the lie in his voice. “Have you?”

John nodded slowly, “Yeah,” he sighed, “In fact, I’m in love now, but he doesn’t know it. He’s too busy with his own life to notice how I feel about him,” he tossed the box of matches onto the table, looking down again.

“He?” Sherlock narrowed his eyes as John nodded meekly. The confession blindsided Sherlock and his blood ran cold for a moment. As far as he knew, John had only dated women, at least that was true since he’d been Sherlock’s flatmate. So when had this ‘he’ come onto the scene?

“You are in love with a man?” Sherlock’s heart jumped, his stomach clinched, and his breath faltered. John was in love with a man, that couldn’t be true. “Then what is this ‘I am not gay’ bit about?” His tone coming out harsh, far harsher than he had intended it to be.

“I didn’t mean to fall in love Sherlock. No one ever means to fall in love, it just sort of – happens,” John shrugged picking at a piece of non-existent lint on his jeans. “And I’m not gay,” he paused for several beats, “bisexual, maybe. I don’t know – I’ve never been attracted to a man before him.”

Sherlock’s heart was pounding. Could John be talking about him? Or was there someone else in John’s life, someone he’d met through the surgery, an old army, or school mate who had turned up after years of absence? He let the room fall into silence for several beats, broken only by more thunder and lightning. “So who is this man? Anyone I know?” Sherlock tried to sound unconcerned but to his great annoyance, there was a very slight tremor in his voice, he hoped John had missed that. He often failed to observe even the obvious.

“Yeah, you could say that,” John answered still not looking up. He blew out a breath and shifted in his chair. “I don’t even know if he would be interested in someone like me.”

Sherlock’s heart raced wildly. He needed more information about this man, he needed to know if it was possible that what he felt for John, might be returned. God, what if it was? Could they be lovers and still remain friends and workmates, or would it end like every other romantic relationship he’d ever attempted, in complete ruins?

“So,” Sherlock started slowly, “you didn’t mean to fall in love. How did that happen?”

It took several long seconds for John to respond. “He’s a truly remarkable man,” he said at length, his voice distant and wistful. “He’s absolutely brilliant, insightful, and clever. A great man, although nobody else understands him as I do,” he paused and inhaled slowly. “And gorgeous, breathtakingly gorgeous, graceful, strong, and talented, he has more talent in his little finger then most people have . . .” he trailed off, swallowing hard.

Sherlock’s mouth went dry. Brilliant, insightful, clever, misunderstood, John could be talking about him. Except – a great man – gorgeous – graceful – for all of his arrogance Sherlock did not consider himself any of these. How many times in his life, had he been call a freak or weardo, or told in no uncertain terms that he did not conform to anyone’s idea of beauty. If John thought his man was any of these things then he was surely not talking about Sherlock. He leaned forward resting his forearms on the table.

“Have you told him, this man, how you feel?” Dear God, did he really sound so bitter and jealous?

John shook his head. “No,” his answer barely more than a whisper.

Sherlock made an irritated sound in the back of his throat and slapped his hand down on the table, making John jump and look up in alarm. “Then don’t sit around pouting about it!” Sherlock snapped venomously. “Love,” he scoffed, “what the hell good is it if it makes you as miserable as you are right now?”

“It’s the most beautiful thing in the world when it’s mutual,” John looked up, his eyes locking onto Sherlock’s with something like pity. “But you wouldn’t know that if you’ve never been in love,” there was a long pause before John spoke again, his voice full of longing. “I dream about being with him, you know – as lovers,” he shook his head, looking back down. “But I’m afraid it will never happen. How could someone like him, want someone like me?”

Sherlock pushed himself to his feet. “Christ, John,” he snarled, “either do something about it or stop feeling sorry for yourself! You’re being childish. I don’t have the time or the interest for your self-pity,” he started out of the room.

“I’m just afraid of getting hurt, Sherlock. I honestly don’t know what I’d do if I told him how I feel about him and he didn’t feel the same about me,” John called after him.

Sherlock spun around and glared at John. “Take the risk, or shut the hell up, John!” He spat back at him. “I really don’t care which!” He turned on his heal, “Any man who wouldn’t want you is an idiot anyway!” He grumbled under his breath as he stormed to his bedroom, slamming the door behind him.

* * * *

Sherlock lay on his bed, his back to the door, curled into the fetal position trying to calm down. Light momentarily filled the room, followed several seconds later by thunder. The storm was moving off, leaving behind the patter of steady rain outside his bedroom windows. He thought about opening a window to let in some of the cooler air, but then he’d have to get up, and right now, he just didn’t feel like moving.

John had been right. He hadn’t meant to fall in love, it had just – happened. What was he going to do? If John was indeed in love with someone other than himself, where did that leave him? Alone again, that’s where.

He rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling. John’s description of his new love didn’t sound like a description of himself, and that had hurt. It had been a long time since he’d reacted like that to being hurt, getting angry, defensive and lashing out. That had been the way he’d reacted when he was growing up and his siblings taunted and teased him, or later when classmates bullied him, or called him freak.

‘Turn the other cheek,’ his mother had always told him. But that was easier said than done.

He had once answered her with, ‘Why, so they can slap the other one as well?’ which had earned him several hours alone in his room without the company of his books or experiments, just for being smart with his mum. He groaned at the memory.

He didn’t want to be angry with John. He knew that John didn’t mean to hurt him. And the line about ‘any man who did not want you . . .’ God, how much damage had he done with that bit of witticism, assuming John had even heard that. Oh whom was he kidding, of course, John had heard. It had been a slip of the tongue. He hadn’t meant to say it out loud, and for that reason alone, the powers-that-be would have made sure John had actually been paying attention.

In spite of all his arrogance, bravado, and self-reliance, he felt alone, he always had. John had been his one real hope that this time it could be different. And now that looked like it was never going to happen. They were friends – best friends – but it seemed that was all they would ever be.

This might well be the worse night of his life.

He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to exert some sort of control over the emotions roiling within him. He wasn’t used to feeling like this – emotional. He was usually able to distance himself from his emotions, stay aloof and detached. What had John called him, that night in the public room of the Crossed Keys Inn? Spock – the all logic no emotions character from that America TV show?

He called himself a sociopath, but that had just been a convenient wall to hide behind, keeping the rest of humanity at bay. He did feel, though he tried not to. His first boyfriend, back in his freshmen year at Uni, had bestowed that label on him, and it had been the mask he had worn ever since.

He probably owed John an apology, but right now, he didn’t think he could apologize without sounding insincere, and John deserved better than that. He had wanted so much for his desire to be returned, for John to want him, to be in love with him. How had he missed John’s infatuation with someone other than himself? Had he missed some crucial piece of evidence? No wait, he missing the evidence? That was ludicrous! He was Sherlock Holmes, by God, the world’s only consulting detective, he didn’t miss evidence, or clues, or data of any kind. It had to be something else. But what? He was so confused. Feelings always confused him like this.

Jesus, he was hopeless.

He would just have to wish John all the happiness he deserved – which was considerable – with this man, the man he was in love with, and learn to let John go. He’d always had a fantasy that one day he and John would return for a case, high on the adrenalin that solving a mystery or catching a criminal, gave them and that John would push him up against the wall and kiss him passionately. It had been a secret dream of his for quite a while now, one he wished would happen each time they returned home from a case successfully solved. But now – well – he loved John and he wouldn’t stand in the way of his happiness. He could only hope the bastard, whoever he was, understood how fortunate he was to have John Watson love him.

John had always taken care of him, making sure he ate, drank, and generally looked after himself. He had bandaged countless wounds, kept vigil over him when he was drugged or concussed. All of that would be over with once the object of his affection was made aware of how John felt. Because it was true – at least as far as he was concerned – that any man who didn’t want John Watson was indeed a fucking idiot.

He lay there listening to the rain and the receding thunder, so lost in his own thoughts that he almost didn’t hear the gentle knock at his door.

“What!” He barked, the unspoken ‘go away and leave me alone’ resonating in the tone of that single word command.

Slowly the door opened and the golden glow of candlelight preceded John as he slipped inside without a word. Sherlock watched as he carried the candle to the dresser and set it down, pausing with his back to him, silhouetted by the soft light, giving John an almost ethereal appearance. Sherlock rose up onto his elbows and studied John, his John – the man who had entered his life, his flat, and then his heart – and ached to hold him. To feel John’s body pressed to his, John’s lips on his. He sighed audibly.

“What do you want?” His voice seemed loud in the quiet of the room; the only other sounds were the drone of rain on the window sill, the splashing of passing cars, and the soft sound of their breathing. “I’m not afraid of the dark John, you didn’t need to bring me a nightlight,” he snarled, watching John’s back, not understanding why he had come in. Was he there to gloat and tell Sherlock more about his mystery lover? No, John wasn’t like that. He was kind and gentle. More likely, he was there to try and soften the sting of revealing that another had captured his heart. That was just the way John was, and Sherlock found himself wishing that John could just leave well enough alone.

“Shh,” John breathed softly, his back still to Sherlock, “I didn’t bring the candle in here for you,” he seemed to make a decision. He stood a little taller, squared his shoulders, and slowly turned to face Sherlock. With his back now to the only light available, John’s face was bathed in shadow, and Sherlock could not read his expression. “I brought it in so I could see you,” he began moving toward the bed and Sherlock’s breath quickened, and his heart pounded with equal measures of anticipation, hope, and apprehension.

“John, what the hell are you doing?” Sherlock had meant to sound annoyed and demanding, but failed. Instead, it had sounded pathetically hopeful and wanting. He cursed himself.

John said nothing more until he reached the side of the bed, and sank down to sit on the edge, hitching up one leg so that he could face Sherlock fully. But his face was still in shadow and it was hard for Sherlock to read his expression.

“Taking a risk,” John said on a soft breath.

“John,” the name forced itself from Sherlock’s constricted throat. He watched disbelievingly as John gently wrapped a hand around the back of his neck, sliding his fingers into Sherlock’s hair, pulling him forward just a bit, as he leaned down to press his lips to Sherlock’s in a soft chaste kiss.

Sherlock had never really been a fan of kissing; it was just something to be endured, as was most of foreplay. A readying of the body for what was to come next. But kissing John was different; it was thrilling, and arousing and almost – sinful. He was actually panting when John pulled back keeping his hand behind the nape of Sherlock’s neck.

“Joh–” Sherlock’s voice caught momentarily in his throat. “John – I – I –” he stammered stupidly.

“Do you want me to leave?” John whispered. Sherlock knew that John would if he were asked.

“N – no,” Sherlock’s voice shook as he fisted one hand in John’s vest top, “God, no.” He pulled John in for another kiss, lowering himself back down, John following him to the mattress. He felt John’s lips part and his tongue trace delicately along his lower lip. It seemed only natural for him to part his own lips and let John in. John’s tongue was hot and delightful as he licked along the sensitive flesh inside Sherlock’s upper lip. He filled Sherlock’s mouth with his tongue, stroking against the roof of his mouth, then swirling it around the tip of Sherlock’s tongue. He sucked gently, urging Sherlock’s tongue into his own mouth, and Sherlock felt him moan into the kiss. God this was unlike any kiss he had ever known before. Breathing was becoming an issue, but Sherlock was unwilling to part from John’s mouth. He slid a hand around John’s back and pulled him in closer.

When John pulled back again, they were both panting. “John,” Sherlock gasped, “you want me?”

John chuckled. In the dim light of the room, Sherlock could just see John smile down at him. “Yes, you git, I want you. Who else did you think I was talking about?” He brushed the hair from Sherlock’s forehead with gentle fingers.

“But I’m not –’

John kissed him again, a deep passionate kiss, cutting off any argument Sherlock was about to put forth. John slid his hand down the side of Sherlock’s neck, following the line of his shirt to the first fastened button. Deftly John popped the button open, stroking the newly exposed flesh with warm fingertips. He continued unfastening the remaining buttons and then pushed the fabric away from Sherlock’s chest, lightly skimming his hand over an already taught nipple. Sherlock moaned helplessly into the kiss, his body beginning to tremble, his cock growing completely hard.

“You like that, do you?” John’s voice was low, husky, and laced with lust. Sherlock could only whimper in response. John pulled Sherlock’s shirt free of his trousers, kissing his way down Sherlock’s throat, to his sternum and finally, swirling his tongue over a nipple.

Sherlock hissed, arching up into John’s touch. “God, John – that feels – so – good,” he tried to reach for the hem of John’s vest top, but John took him by the wrist and held firmly. He closed his mouth over Sherlock’s erect nipple and sucked; Sherlock gasping his pleasure, trying to move his hand, but couldn’t break John’s hold on him. “Please, John, please I want to feel your skin against mine,” his voice shook, his body shook, and his cock ached, pressed tight against the confines of its fabric prison.

“God yes,” John whispered against his skin, sitting up and pulling the vest top over his head, casting it to the side before helping Sherlock struggle out of his own shirt.

Sherlock shifted over, tugging on John’s hand. “Lay with me?” He whispered. John complied easing himself down onto the bed and facing Sherlock. He pushed his fingers into John’s hair, seeking his mouth with his own.

They lay there, kissing deeply, tongues sliding against each other, caressing, teasing, and exploring each other’s mouths, necks, cheeks and ears. Sherlock taking great care to memorize everything he did that made John moan, shiver, or gasp with pleasure, for the sheer delight of being able to do it over and over again. Never had it been so important to him to pleasure someone other than himself, but then he had never been with John before. He didn’t think he could ever get enough of this, kissing John, holding him close, feeling him shudder and tremble with the pleasure he was able to give John. He stroked John’s back, his fingers tracing his spine from nape of neck to waistline, where his progress was halted by John’s belt. He slid his hand over John’s arse and yes, it was as firm and wonderful as he had imagined it would be.

“I was so afraid that you wouldn’t be interested,” John moaned as he moved his kisses along Sherlock’s jaw to his ear, where he traced the outer edge with the tip of his tongue. Sherlock inhaled sharply, a thrill surging through his body.

“I’m interested,” he finally managed to gasp out, pressing his erection into John’s belly. “God, I’m interested.”

“Yeah, I think I got that now,” John purred, his voice deep and dusky. He slid his hand down Sherlock’s back and over his arse, giving it a firm squeeze. “Christ that feels good.”

Sherlock moaned, the sound of it vibrating deep in his chest and filling the quiet room. A flash of light and thunder only a second later indicated that another cell of the storm was approaching. But neither of them seemed to notice. Gently, Sherlock pushed John onto his back.

“This would feel even better,” Sherlock palmed John’s erection through the layers of cloth, making John writhe into the touch.

“God yes,” he hissed as Sherlock unfastened his belt buckle, button, and zip. He cried out as Sherlock slid his hand into his pants and took hold of his eager cock.

Sherlock hummed in approval as he smeared a drop of pre-cum over the head of John’s cock, with the pad of his thumb, running his fist down, and back up the shaft in one slow stroke. “John,” he breathed before kissing his way down John’s throat and chest to capture a nipple in his mouth. Sucking gently and swirling his tongue until it hardened under his attention, nipping lightly reveling in John’s responsiveness as he pushed up into Sherlock’s teasing. He gave John’s cock another stroke, massaging the glands on the up stroke, but his movements were hampered by John’s jeans, not allowing him to stroke the full length of John’s cock.

Pushing himself to his knees, Sherlock hooked his fingers in the waistband of John’s jeans and pants and tugged. Obligingly, John lifted his hips so that Sherlock could pull them down and off, and push them off the bed. The belt buckle making a satisfying thunk against the wood of the floor.

“I want yours off too,” John reached for the button of Sherlock’s trousers. Quickly, Sherlock reached down and undid the button and zip of his own trousers, and pushed them down to his knees, but before he could get them completely off, John enclosed Sherlock’s aching cock in his fist, skinning him back to expose the glistening head. Sherlock froze momentarily, groaning helplessly the sound full of want and need. He managed to rid himself of his remaining clothing without dislodging John’s hand.

“John,” Sherlock moaned his name, his voice deep, shaking, and breathy.

“You’re so beautiful,” John whispered as he continued to stroke Sherlock, reaching up with the other hand to cup Sherlock’s balls, rolling them gently.

Sherlock dropped his head forward, his curls brushing John’s chest. His arms were shaking threatening to give out, but he didn’t want to move and risk losing John’s touch. When he couldn’t support himself any longer, he nudged John’s legs apart, and moved down John’s body to settle himself between John’s thighs. Gently he took his balls into his mouth, one at a time, sucking softly, before licking a broad swipe up the underside of John’s cock, swirling his tongue around the head, and pressing softly into the slit. Sherlock slowly swallowed John down as far as he could.

John gasped, his hips bucking up into Sherlock’s mouth. “Jesus, Sherlock! That’s – that’s, oh God that’s incredible.”

Sherlock chuckled deep in his chest, the vibrations making John lose his breath. He pulled back, sliding the flat of his tongue along the underside of the shaft and pausing to massage the head with this tongue before taking him back down again.

“Sherlock,” John moaned, “I had planed to this for you,” Sherlock hummed in reply and John swallowed a cry of pleasure. “God, yes Sherlock!”

Sherlock continued to work John’s cock with mouth, lips and tongue until John was quivering uncontrollably on the brink of coming. He pulled off, John whimpering at the loss of the contact, but Sherlock didn’t want him coming just yet, and definitely not without John being inside him. He nipped playfully at the insides of John’s thighs before kissing his way back up John’s body, pausing to tease each nipple before capturing John’s mouth in a sizzling hot kiss.

John arched up against him seeking friction, but Sherlock denied him the contact, kissing along John’s jaw to his ear, sucking the lobe into his mouth.

“You teasing bastard,” John groaned trying to get his hand under Sherlock, wanting to take hold of his cock again, but Sherlock thwarted his attempts. “You’re going to pay for this,” John warned as Sherlock stroked a hand down John’s chest to pinch a nipple between thumb and forefinger.

“Promises, promises,” Sherlock chuckled into John’s ear.

“You asked for it,” John drew one knee up until his foot was flat on the bed, and then quickly rolled them over so that he was now astride Sherlock’s thighs, just behind his cock. He leaned forward slotting their cocks together – both men moaning at the contact – before he lowered himself on top of Sherlock and began to move.

“God yes, John,” Sherlock moaned arching up into John, “that’s right, make me pay.” His voice a sultry purr of delight.

John buried his face in Sherlock’s neck sucking the skin, leaving a love bite low enough to be hidden by a shirt collar. Sherlock shivered, moving in counterpoint to John’s movements.

“That’s it, mark me, tell the world I’m yours,” Sherlock breathed tipping his head to give John better access. John hummed his approval and began moving faster.

For several minutes, they writhed against each other, breathing hard, making soft pleasured noises.

“Fuck me, John,” Sherlock whispered breathlessly into John’s ear, delighted when a shiver rippled through John’s body.

“Are you sure?” John answered, finding it hard to put together a coherent sentence.

“I want you inside me,” Sherlock purred in a low seductive voice. “I want to feel you inside me.”

“Christ, Sherlock yes,” John panted against his skin before rising up to look him in the face. “Lu – lube?”

Sherlock reached over to pull open the drawer in the bedside table and removed a condom and a slightly used tube of lube, pressing them into John’s hand. John rolled off him, tearing open the condom, rolling it on before flicking open the lube, and squeezing some onto his fingers. Sherlock hissed at the first cold touch of John’s fingers as he stroked down between Sherlock’s legs. Sherlock drew his feet up, spreading his knees to give John better access. John pressed a finger past the tight ring of muscle.

“Bloody hell,” Sherlock gasped in obvious discomfort, squeezing his eyes shut and trying to control his breathing.

“I’m sorry,” John was quick to react, pulling out, but circling softly around Sherlock’s anus. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

Sherlock shook his head forcing himself to relax, “No, it’s not you,” he drew a steadying breath opening his eyes to meet John’s gaze. “It’s just been a very long time.” And it had been. The last man to take him had been nearly five years before and he had done so without preparing Sherlock adequately. He had penetrated Sherlock too soon and left him with a burn and ache that had lasted for days after. But he knew that if there was anyone he could trust it was John. And he wanted John inside of him, wanted John more than he had ever wanted anyone before.

“Don’t let me hurt you,” John moved down to take the head of Sherlock’s cock in his mouth, rolling his tongue around the glands and sucking softly. Sherlock moaned as John slipped his finger inside him, stroking slowly, in and out.

“I know you won’t,” Sherlock breathed almost to himself, “I know you’d never hurt me.”

“How does that feel?” John asked resting his head on Sherlock’s stomach.

“Oh God,” Sherlock moaned pushing back against John’s hand, “that’s – that’s – amazing. More please John, more.” John slid a second finger inside and Sherlock inhaled sharply as John found his prostate. “Yes, John! Do that again!”

John did, at the same time he took Sherlock back into his mouth, taking in a surprising amount, and Sherlock’s entire body surged with pleasure, nerves tingling, sparks flaring behind his eyes. He had to work hard not to buck up into John’s mouth.

“John, more please, more,” Sherlock begged, pushing back into John’s hand as John stroked his fingers in and out of him. He ran his fingers into John’s hair, gently massaging his scalp. “John, please!”

John kissed his way back up Sherlock’s body to meet their mouths together again, fucking Sherlock’s mouth with his tongue in time with the strokes of his hand. Sherlock reached for John’s cock, stroking it with a firm hand desperate to give back as much pleasure as John was giving him. John hummed in approval, introducing a third finger, gently stretching Sherlock open. Sherlock threw his head back gasping out John’s name, pushing back against John’s hand, and fisting his other hand in the duvet.

“I think you’re ready,” John breathed pulling his hand away from Sherlock. Sherlock started to roll onto his belly, but John stopped him. “No, I want you to face me. I want to be able to watch you.”

Sherlock moved back nodding and biting his lower lip as he watched John move to kneel between his thighs. He trembled in anticipation as John slicked himself with more lube, adding some to Sherlock’s cock as well. Sherlock had never been so hard in his life and even though the lube was cool, it did nothing to reduce its hardness. Sherlock held his breath watching as John lined himself up with Sherlock’s hole and leaned forward to press himself slowly into him. It was a slow slide of bliss that made Sherlock’s nerves sizzle, sending heat coursing along his spine. He sighed as John seated himself fully. “John,” the name was a prayer of worship as he wrapped his legs around John’s back. He tipped his hips up, pressing John even further into him.

“Jesus, Sherlock,” John moaned. “You’re so hot, so tight, so perfect,” he began to move, slowly at first, lowering his body so that Sherlock’s cock would get a firm stroke with each thrust.

“Harder,” Sherlock pleaded, “please John harder,” he pushed the fingers of one hand into John’s hair, the other hand he put against the headboard pushing back as much as he could. “Please John more.”

John hummed in delight, seeking out Sherlock’s mouth and kissing him deeply. “You’re perfect,” he moaned into Sherlock’s mouth, picking up speed, fucking him with obvious delight.

“Yes, John,” Sherlock hissed, his body trembling with ecstasy, “you’re so good.”

Sherlock arched up into John, pushing against the headboard tipping his hips up trying to get the angle right, not so much for his own pleasure, but for John’s. Feeling the almost liquid rhythm of John’s hips, the low rumbling of his voice as he moaned, his eyes half closed, mouth slack with pleasure, Sherlock wanted nothing more than to make this the best he possibly could for John.

“Tell me,” Sherlock whispered, “tell me what’s good.”

“Sherlock, I’m not going to last much longer,” John groaned burying his face in Sherlock’s neck.

“Do it,” Sherlock panted his voice rumbling deep within his chest. “Come for me John, come inside me.”

“No,” John moaned, “you haven’t . . .” He trailed off. Sherlock could tell he was having difficulty controlling himself.

“I’m close,” Sherlock assured him, “so damn close — Oh God!” He cried out as John changed the angle slightly, pushing Sherlock over the edge. His body sung with pure ecstasy, in ways and intensities it had never done before. Sherlock felt the hot slick between them, as his orgasm exploded through him, his cock pulsing out cum with John’s every stroke. He arched off the bed, reflexively tightening around John. “John, _John_ , JOHN!"

John’s rhythm faltered, his hips jerking hard into him. “Shh-er-lock!” he cried out as he came hard. Sherlock could feel him pulsing inside him, could feel John’s orgasm ripping through him.

“Yes, John, yes,” He wrapped his arms around John pulling him closer. “I’m yours.”

They both went still, breathing hard, coming back to themselves. Aftershocks making hips jerk and breaths catch. Eventually John rolled off, leaving Sherlock bereft of his weight and warmth. He whimpered softly in protest. He felt John pull the condom off and toss it into the bin, before reaching over the side of the bed and grabbing his vest top and using it to clean them both. He settled himself on his back pulling Sherlock with him to lie against his chest. Sherlock snuggled close pressing a leg between John’s, taking a long steadying breath, John stroking a hand through Sherlock’s damp curls.

“God Sherlock that was incredible,” John sighed with contentment. “Next time I want you to fuck me.”

Next time? John had said _‘next time’_. Sherlock’s fear that this might be the only time he would have John, subsided into irrelevancy. Yes, there would be a next time, many next times, and he would give back the pleasure John had given him, tenfold. He felt a warm surge of anticipation wash over him, and sighed.

Suddenly the icy stab of fear struck his heart. He’d known others to talk of love and promises of next time, taking all the pleasure for themselves, only to turn Sherlock away the ‘next time.’ He pulled away to look into John’s face.

“John, I don’t expect . . . I’ll understand if you don’t . . .” God, what was wrong with him, he couldn’t even finish a damn sentence. He swallowed hard and tried again. “Stay with me tonight, just for tonight, that’s all I’ll ask for. Just give me this one night . . .”

“Shut up,” John laughed lightly, “don’t spoil the afterglow,” he pulled Sherlock to him again, settling him against his chest. “I know you don’t expect anything,” he paused for a long moment, while Sherlock lost himself in the sound of John’s heart beat and watched the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. “Of course I’ll stay with you tonight. I’ll stay with you every night, for so long as you want me to. I love you – you git,” John sighed. “You’re stuck with me.”

“I love you,” Sherlock breathed against John’s skin, “and I don’t want you anywhere but here with me, like this.” He snuggled closer, sighing in pure contentment. “Unless you don’t think you can keep up with me.” He teased.

“Just you wait until I get my second wind,” John warned playfully, “then we’ll see who can’t keep up with whom.”

“Promises, promises,” Sherlock scoffed.

“Oh,” John laughed in return, “you are _so_ going to pay for that one.”

“Believe me,” Sherlock chuckled, “I’m counting on it.”

Sherlock sighed; this was without a doubt, the best night of his life.

— Finis —


End file.
